First Day of the Rest of Your Life
by aruyo
Summary: "John never asks anything, which is something Dirk has grown to like about him." Implied DirkJake & JohnDave, with fake DirkJohn. Deathfic.


The city is cold and unwelcoming at night, and this is just how Dirk likes it. He thrives in the dark corners, the taverns with their broken neon signs, the streets lined with broken windows with wrought iron bars.

Most people would be inclined to call this the bad part of town, but Dirk disagrees. He isn't quite sure how he ever became so entangled in the volatile night life of this godforsaken borough, but he did, and he can't say he doesn't enjoy it. Street fights, bar fights, fights for the sake of fights. He isn't a violent person by nature, but things get dull here, and the fun doesn't start until the sun goes down.

He needs something to fill the hole in his head (his splintering heart), and this will have to do. Roxy will chide at him when he gets home, and Dave will shoot him a worried look behind his shades when he thinks he won't notice, but it'll be worth it just to _feel_ again.

There are some people who grow self-destructive when bad things happen. There are some people who just grow destructive. If there's some middle ground between the two, Dirk has found it. Every night, unless he's preoccupied with building something or taking care of Roxy's drunk ass, he's on the streets. He doesn't exactly have to look for fights, although it's nice to have his pick. Most often, he'll come across some drunken asshole with a bone to pick, and that will do just fine.

He never initiates a strife himself, just accepts one if it crosses his path. No one ever accused Dirk Strider of being a pacifist, but by no means is he a savage. A lot of people resent him, anyways, for his spikey hair and lazy posture and too-pointy shades. A punk, they call him, and Dirk would be apt to agree.

Sometimes he goes to the bar. Not to fight, specifically, but for a drink. The fights usually just come as an added bonus. No one kicks him out, because Dave has a lot more influence in this area than some people give him credit for. Dirk is mostly content just to drown himself in a couple rounds of scotch, and then, when he's had his fill, he'll saunter over and pay everything up front.

It's usually at that point that someone takes a swing at him, because no one likes a rich kid getting hammered and then meandering around like he owns the place. Another perk of going to the sketchy side of town is that no one calls the cops, because that would probably get the entire establishment put out of business. Everyone here does something illegal at one point or another. And since the last thing Dirk needs is to be arrested for disorderly conduct, that's nice.

He only travels into the nicer part of the city occasionally, and only to go to one particular bar. A small place, tucked away in some forgotten corner, gathering dust and disuse. It's not a complete dump like what he's used to, but it's not some elite social club, either. It's just your average, run-of-the-mill bar for your average, run-of-the-mill drunkard. Nothing out of the ordinary, nothing irregular. Normal.

Dirk doesn't come here for the service or the ambiance or to 'get away from it all.' Hell, he doesn't even come here for the alcohol. The actual reason he takes the trek here every other week is something else entirely, something dangerous, something that he'd never admit to anyone he wasn't about to kill. The actual reason he comes here stands behind the the counter polishing shot glasses, and his name is John Egbert.

He's nothing special, John, not really. Just another kid trying to pay his way through college. Dave's best friend (or something more, but Dirk never really cared to ask), Jane's distant cousin. He makes a lot of corny jokes and sometimes indulges in a prank or two, but otherwise, he's content to just serve Dirk his drinks and occasionally scold him for going overboard.

But here, Dirk takes care to keep his inebriation in check. Because it's not just John Egbert that keeps him coming back. It's that laugh. It's that bucktooth smile. The messy black hair and glasses and that small spark of adventure in his eyes. The resemblance between John and Jake is painful in the most lovely way, and that's why Dirk keeps coming back.

Somewhere between being self-destructive and destructive, Dirk has found a middle ground. And that middle ground is going to kill him some day. But before it does, he hopes that those blue eyes will turn green, and just once more, he'll be able to see that smile again. Just once more.

"Back again, I see," John says in that same old chipper (decidedly un-accented) voice, grinning. It's not the same, it'll never be the same, but it's close. It's as close as Dirk will ever get, because Jake is gone. He gives John a small nod of confirmation before politely requesting his usual drink, and of course, John obliges. At this time of night on a Thursday, Dirk is one of the only customers this bar sees.

He really doesn't come here for any fights, save for the internalized ones. He watches John prepare him a drink with skillful (unscarred) hands, made just the way he likes it. It's been months since he started coming here, so Dirk supposes that this is natural. In between the pouring and mixing and shaking, there's a little idle chit chat. Mostly about Dave, John's favorite topic of conversation.

"He's doing good," Dirk says for the umpteenth time. "Still a complete asshole, though."

John laughs (but it isn't the same, and it never will be, and Dirk really needs that fucking drink.) "I wouldn't expect anything less. Is he still working on that godawful movie of his?"

Dirk tries his best not to look to desperate when John slide the glass over to him. "Yeah. He's really serious about it. Says it's going to change the world or some shit."

John's answer smile is remarkably warm, for such a cold night. "What a dork."

Under the harsh fluorescent lights, the semblance continues to haunt Dirk, even as he begins to hastily sip at his drink. The smudged glasses and disastrous teeth and loveable aura of gawkiness. His mind is caught between a tether of good memories (strifing, lying in the summer grass, laughing at stupid jokes and exploring the island and playing video games, even just _talking_ about mundane things, like who's going to buy bread, or what's on the TV) and the nightmares that have plagued him for months (a phone call, screaming, rain falling at a funeral and Roxy wasn't drunk for once, just sad, and Jane was crying.)

John is completely oblivious to his conflicting thoughts as he hums to himself, going back to cleaning glasses. He sometimes makes small comments about the weather, but he doesn't expect an answer, and Dirk's throat is too thick to give him one. The shades can hide his tears, but there's no failsafe for what comes out of his mouth, so he's learned to keep it shut. John either doesn't notice or doesn't comment.

"You Striders are always so mysterious," he sometimes says with a laugh. But he never asks why.

John never asks anything, which is something Dirk has grown to like about him. Never once has he asked why Dirk takes the trouble of coming all the way out here just for adequate alcohol and adequate company. Never once has he asked why Dirk sometimes stare at him with such melancholy. And when Dirk did slip up once, a couple weeks ago, with his forehead pressed to the counter and that one name falling fast from his lips, John didn't say a single word. Dirk thinks that he understands more than he lets on.

He thinks that maybe, if the circumstances were different, John would make a good friend. Maybe if Jake were still here, if Dirk weren't using John for his smile and his laughter, if this entire mess had been skipped over all together, he and John could have a normal relationship, bereft of empty conversations and empty tables and empty glasses of gin and juice. But Dirk had never been much of a wishful thinker.

Sometimes, when his glass is half empty (half full?) he gets the impression that John might be using him, too. It's a strange thought, but when the buzz has worn off and he's more-or-less back to himself, he likes to entertain the idea. Because sometimes, when John thinks he's too far gone to notice, his eyes will become distant and he'll gaze at Dirk with a look that the younger Strider knows far too well. And maybe John isn't seeing the pointy hair and pointy shades. Maybe he sees Dave instead.

Or maybe Dirk is just projecting. Who knows anymore? The world is a crazy place.

After he's polished off exactly two rounds, Dirk decides that he's had enough punishment for one night. He grabs his coat off the stool next to him and get to his feet, stretching. The ancient television set in the corner of the room is blaring an advertisement for Dave's shitty new movie, and John, who was previously paying rapt attention to it, turns to look at him. And then he frowns.

"I can drive you home, if you want. My boss won't mind, since my shift ends in thirty minutes." he says kindly. This is his oft given suggestion, and as usual, Dirk respectfully declines. He knows that John is only looking out for his best friend's younger brother, but this was always meant to stay inside these walls, and he can't shake that idea loose. John's frown deepens. "Alright, if you say so…"

Truth be told, Dirk feel dirty for using him like this. Whether or not John is using him in the same way, it still feels wrong. To John, to Dave, to Jake. To himself. But he's grown into something of a sadomasochist over these past months, so he can't exactly just stop, even if he wanted to. And hell, does he want to. John follows him to the door to chat about the weather, and his head is suddenly swimming, even though he hasn't had all that much to drink.

John is laughing for whatever reason. "And you know, that idiot still won't admit that he was-"

Without thinking and against his better judgment, Dirk leans in and kiss him directly on the mouth.

It's not a particularly passionate kiss. An experimental peck, maybe. It lasts for around five seconds, and John is too surprised to do anything. Dirk can't blame him, really. He doesn't even really know why he did it in the first place. At this point, he feels like a man trying to claw his way out of an early grave- he'd do anything for just one glimpse of sunlight. He has no idea what he was even expecting, really. Certainly not happiness. And afterwards, he only feels empty. Empty and cold.

"I'm sorry," he mumbles quickly, and before John can say or do anything, Dirk ducks out the door and runs.

The breeze whips wildly against his face, cold and biting. Vaguely, he can hear John shouting at him from the door, but he can't tell if the voice is upset or not. His eyes begin to water, but whether it's from the wind or something else entirely, he can't say.

The city remains cold and unwelcoming, and Dirk likes it that way.

* * *

**yes homo.**

**edited this a little bit because it was yucky before.**

**but now its marginally better so go me.**

**reviews would be nice. **


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